


Three Short Pieces

by QueenIX



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenIX/pseuds/QueenIX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two short pieces and a small scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silk

Silk. It was always silk. This time, it was crimson, a slick sheen of organic luxury that shined dully in her hands, thickly, like a pool of drying blood. The fabric was of the finest quality, she knew, bought from an exclusive manufacturer, and then sent to his personal tailor to be sewn into a gift, just for her. The tailor didn't bother to call on her anymore, her measurements were memorized, and there was no need to try on the things the tailor made. She knew, without doubt, they would fit.

It was always the same, every time. They would fight, Skrain would hit her, she would bruise. Two days later, he would send silk. Somehow Skrain thought it made up for his brutality, for his lack of control, to send her these extravagant peace offerings. She had learned that to him, with his upbringing of wealth and power, this was love, to pay someone in hard coin when you'd hurt them. What she didn't understand is why she kept accepting his gifts and making it true.

Still, she shouldn't complain. She was lucky. She had heard stories from the other pleasure women on the station, terrible, tragic stories of humiliation, of cruelty and violence. Things that turned her stomach when she thought about them. Even with the occasional cuff, she was treated like royalty by comparison. She shouldn't complain, she knew that, she should be grateful, and in the strangest way, she was. It wasn't her choice to be here, but she had made the best of it, made the most of what she had become, and counted herself fortunate that all she had to worry about were a few bruises from time to time.

The night the Cardassians had brought her here, they had come in the night, and given her a choice that wasn't a choice. They had taken her from her love, from her children, and she had found herself on a transport bound for Terok Nor before she even realized what was happening. She had been so frightened on that ship, all those scaled faces and scaled hands, the soldiers taking liberties with their eyes and their words, saying and doing things her former artist self would have raged over, would have fought over. And she had fought, once. The proof had been a long and jagged scar that twisted her cheek in an angry line, a cautionary reminder of what fighting could get her.

That proud woman was long dead now, buried in the dirt of the camps. She had been silenced, shamed by the things the soldiers had done to her there. She had no place in this new order. The empty shell that was left of her had simply let the Cardassians do and say as they pleased that night, lily-meek and silent, eyes cast to the floor as they took away her existence. And in exchange for her complacency, the scar was taken away, too.

That night seemed a lifetime ago as she ran a hand over her new dress. It was a beautiful thing, and it was hers. Her day dress was discarded, and she held the expensive silk against her bare skin. The color would enhance her own, the cut would flatter her figure, and with the right hair and right cosmetics, she would be lifted from an average woman to a goddess. That tailor certainly knew what he was doing. She held the dress up to her slim frame and admired herself in the mirror, taking a schoolgirl's delight in how the fabric tossed and glimmered, flipping the hem as she turned from side to side. She giggled, gave a twirl, and as she did, a flash of something on her bare flank reflected in the mirror, and she froze.

There. Down her pale ribcage, past her rounded hip, and leeching onto her thigh was the reminder of what she'd endured to earn this dress. A purple, blue, and black landscape of pain, beaten into her by fists she couldn't stop, by well-placed kicks that incredibly hadn't broken her ribs. Skrain had been so angry with her, over a simple nothing, she didn't even remember what now, and he'd channeled his rage straight onto her body. She recalled how the first blow had dropped her to the floor, how it took her breath, and how she'd had just enough time to shield her face before the maelstrom hit in full.

She turned to the mirror, following the trail of bruises around to her back. On her buttocks was a mark she had missed, how she didn't know. It was huge. The size of a bootprint to be precise, because that's what it was. The bottom of a Cardassian military standard-issue boot was stamped clearly on her white flesh, every ridge and every line of the textured sole in perfect detail as if tattooed there. She could make out the shape and size of his foot, the places where his walk had worn the boot unevenly, even the Cardassian insignia worked into the rubber. She stared at that mark for a long time, unmoving and silent, until it sank in just what it was Skrain had done.

_Prophets, woman. He literally kicked your ass this time._

A guffaw burst from her. It broke the silence, echoing off the walls, loud, too loud, ringing sharply in her ear. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop it, but it was too late. It wasn't remotely funny, what he had done, she knew that, but she laughed anyway. She laughed and laughed, until she was gasping for air, tears streaming from eyes that were not quite sane, over round and desperate. The dress was crushed under her arms as she held her gut, her bruised ribs screaming as she heaved and wheezed and brayed like a lunatic.

Her knees buckled. The laughter stopped, but the tears didn't. She and the dress hit the floor at the same time, and she looked in the mirror, crossing her arms over her stomach, sobbing, rocking. The woman with the reddened face and disheveled hair and battered body that stared back at her was a stranger. Who was this person who had sold herself and her family for useless, pretty things, who had bartered her dirty but honest life for a gilded cage? Who was this woman who took silk in exchange for her dignity? She couldn't be Kira Meru. It was impossible.

Meru hated silk.

 


	2. We Need Dinner

Sisko wiped his hands on a towel and moved around to the front of his makeshift kitchen. He slung the towel over his shoulder, and leaned back on the prep counter, resting his weight against the counter's edge. Smiling, Sisko looked fondly on the happy group gathered in his living area. Dinner had been a success, yet again. His father's shrimp creole never failed to please a crowd, and the small one in his quarters was as important as any. The senior staff were all there, and it was the first time they'd all been in one place, together, since his return to DS9.

After dinner, Sisko had shooed everyone away to enjoy a drink while he cleaned up. Everyone, that was, except Odo. The Changeling was the only one Sisko would allow to help, despite the many offers from the others. Odo's silent, efficient presence in the kitchen was never a hindrance, and he was always exceedingly careful with Sisko's china. Three generations of Sisko chefs had served from those plates, and Odo was the only one that Sisko trusted could help with the washing and not break anything. Besides, Sisko knew Odo was much happier at a task than he would have been sitting with the others, trying to be social. The constable didn't really do social.

Odo dried his last dish and set it down gently to rest with the others. Work done, he moved to stand next to Sisko, matching his casual posture. The silence was companionable as they looked on the company gathered in the room.

“Look at that, Odo,” Sisko smiled.

Odo followed Sisko's gaze. “They look so happy, don't they?”

“Yes, they do. And it makes me happy to see it. You should join them.”

“ _We_ should join them.”

“Not me," Sisko said, smile fading. "Not yet. For now, I like seeing them like this, relaxing, no worries. It makes me feel less guilty for...for _abandoning_ them.”

“Captain, it was a difficult time," Odo replied. "You can't blame yourself.”

There had always been something about Odo that made Sisko want to open up, to confess whatever thing he was thinking, and it was a dangerous feeling for a commanding officer. He often held the security chief at arm's length because of it, but on this night, in his quarters, Sisko had to confess the thing that had been on his mind since his return.

“I can blame myself, Odo, and I do. I should never have gotten so wrapped in my own head. I'm the captain. I should have been here for them. for _you_. I left you all here, alone, with a heavy grief and a merciless, powerful enemy breathing down your necks." Sisko passed a hand over his face. "I ran away, Odo, and I am ashamed of it.”

“Sir, none of us sees it that way. We know what Jadzia was to you, and we know what this war has put you through. It's useless to carry guilt on our behalf because we don't resent your leaving. Besides, you left the station in good hands.”

Odo and Sisko looked towards Nerys, who was laughing at something Julian had said, a sparkling, mirth-filled burst of sound that made them both smile. Good hands, indeed, Sisko thought. Kira had led well during his absence. He'd been pleased by the things he'd read in the logs. The colonel had even managed to show the captain up in a few areas, and no one could be prouder than Sisko at what she had accomplished.

Sisko knew, though, that Kira had help. “The station was in good hands, Constable. You and the Colonel make quite the team.”

“Not me," Odo replied. " _Her_.”

“Oh, I don't know, Odo. Admiral Ross was impressed with you both, especially knowing your personal relationship. He declared you and Kira the most consummate professionals he'd ever seen.”

If Odo could have blushed, he would have. “The Colonel made all the decisions. I just followed her lead.”

“Not so hard to do, is it, when you're with someone you love.” Sisko turned to Odo, grinning. “You two are the talk of the station. You're like something out of a novel. Any plans on making this team a permanent thing?”

“Actually, I try not to think too far ahead. Nerys is with me for now, and for now, it's enough.”

“Odo, that's a little cold for someone who's madly in love.”

“Maybe...”

Sisko watched Odo's expression grow troubled as he looked at Kira. Odo was such a capable being, so in control, that it was easy to forget he was still new to love affairs, even innocent about them in some ways, and his stilted reply spoke volumes.

“You don't see it, do you?” Sisko said.

“See what?”

“The change in her. She's a different person than the one I left. Actually, I'm surprised I have to tell you this, observer of human nature that you are, but maybe you're too close to the subject. Look at Nerys, Odo. _Really_ look, and tell me what you see.”

Odo's gaze softened as he admired the object of his affection. “I see her. It's all I've ever seen.”

“I understand,” Sisko replied. “But that's not what I mean. Take her body language, for a start. That stiff-shouldered, ball-of-her-feet, ready-to-spring tension is gone."

"I guess..."

"And I haven't heard her threaten to punch anyone in at least a month."

"She has seemed more....relaxed."

"Exactly, Odo," Sisko said. "Exactly. Why would that be? What's changed? It's not her job, or the war, that's for sure. And what about her eyes, Odo?"

Odo squinted as he scrutinized the Colonel. He shrugged. "I don't see anything different. They're still brown."

Sisko couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, Constable, they're still brown, but that's not what I'm talking about. Kira's eyes smile now, Odo, all the time. Even when she's tearing up the crew in Ops, there's a glow, a happiness about her...Any idea why that is?"

Odo crossed his arms over his chest. "If you're going to say it has something to do with me, I'd rather you didn't."

"Sorry, Constable, I'm saying it," Sisko replied, and clapped Odo on the shoulder. "Stop selling yourself short, man. You've found the key to life, at least according to my mama. She told us if you want to be happy in this life, make someone else happy. And that's what you've done for Nerys, Odo. You've made her very happy."

"Well," Odo replied, looking back at Kira, "as you said, it's easy enough when you're with someone you love."

"That it is, Odo. That it is..."

Just then, Kira caught Odo's gaze, and the smile she gave him was pure radiance. She rose from her seat, heading their way. The men both drew a little straighter as she approached.

"What are you two doing, standing here, looking so broody?" she asked. She took their hands, pulling them away from the kitchen. "If you're finished, you should join us. We're all having a great time, but it would be even better with you two there."

Looking at a beaming Kira, looking over her shoulder at the waiting, hopeful faces beyond, Sisko felt a warmth grow within him. These people were more than staff to him. They had all, each one, become part of the fabric of his life. It was frightening to realize how close he had come to not returning to them. He was grateful, not for the first time, that the Prophets had guided him back to DS9, back to his home, where he belonged. The captain smiled and found that he, too, was perfectly content to follow the colonel's lead, at least for one night.

"You're absolutely right, Nerys," Sisko smiled, dropping his the towel on the counter. "Lead on."


	3. We're Not Fine

He knows his dad didn't abandon him on purpose. At least, that's what Jake tells himself as he stares long out the viewing port. Kira's hand is a small, tight warmth on his shoulder. They look out the window and watch the wormhole roil and burst, throwing out grasping tendrils of light as a ship—Jake doesn't know what ship—triggers the gates to open. The ship enters the passage, and the wormhole swallows it. The gates close with a final flash, and space returns to its normal state; dark, empty, pierced by no-name points of light that hail from nowhere special. All is silent. Undisturbed. As if nothing at all has happened, and everything is just the same as it ever was.

There must be something showing on his face because Kira squeezes his shoulder. He looks down. The smile she wears is encouraging, meant to comfort. It will get better, her smile says, but Kira doesn't say it herself. Jake searches her face, trying to believe her, but the smile doesn't touch her eyes. The longer he looks into those dark depths, the worse he feels. Kira doesn't believe her smile any more than he does.

Kira, too, had been abandoned. Only in her case, it was deliberate.

Jake feels like an ass, letting Kira comfort him. He does his best to give back what Kira is trying to give. He lays his hand over hers, smiling like he means it, crinkling the corners of his eyes and over-widening his mouth, hoping that it looks natural, that it looks normal. Deny and defer, smile and lie. Jake is fine, Kira is fine.

Aren't they both just fine?

Kira nods once, satisfied with something Jake didn't say. She takes her hand back and turns away, heading to Ops. He watches her go, and Jake notes the less-square set of her shoulders, the not-so-jaunty tilt of her head. Her walk isn't right. It's missing the fire, the spark, the something-that-is-Kira it usually has. She makes her way through the Promenade, and Jake sees, but Kira doesn't. Her gaze is hooded, blinded to what's around her, she won't _look_ , and he knows it's on purpose, and it rattles his heart like the wind rattles the old storm shutters on his grandfather's restaurant.

Kira knows, Jake realizes. She feels it, too. They're not fine, never will be. They have lost too much, they two, who share the dark and the nowhere lights, and the long, cold prospect of empty years, missing the ones who were supposed to be there to give those years shape, to give them a name.

But aren't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on characters belonging to Paramount. The characters are theirs, the story is mine.


End file.
